by Nick Gisburne
Her colours build extraordinary shapes
In bright, delightful portraits, filled with joy
But something darker, damaging, escapes
A shadow, rage, determined to destroy
The forms her fingers lovingly create
She mutilates, in madness, with a knife
Another dawn will fill, but soon deflate
The tortured canvas pulling at her life
She finds the faith to fight, to try, again
A landscape, lively, whimsical and warm
But always she must feel the moment when
Her paintings will be stolen by a storm
She finds no way to bring her colours back
For every shape and shade is always black
